Out on a Limb by Lynne Barrett-Lee Page A

house has – quite rightly – been left to me. The will said so. It –’
    ‘No, it didn’t,’ Corinne says, and her gaze is unflinching. ‘And it didn’t because it hasn’t. And it hasn’t because it wasn’t his to leave you.’
    Now I am surprised. How can that be? Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. This really does not look very good.
    ‘Hang on,’ says Pru, who has also clocked the eye stuff and is now looking straight at Corinne. ‘Are you telling me your father didn’t actually own his house?’
    Corinne shakes her head then picks a speck of something from her jacket sleeve. ‘No,’ she says levelly, glancing at her brother. ‘We do.’
    ‘ You do?’ Pru and I say, almost exactly as one.
    ‘Yes, we do,’ she says again. ‘And I’m afraid we need it back.’
    It’s as clear as mud, as these things so often are, but we eventually manage to winnow out the most salient point, which is that the house – which was originally, it turns out, the marital home of the earlier ( an earlier, at any rate) Mr and Mrs Hugo – does indeed belong to his children, it having been bequeathed to them by their late mother. Who apparently owned it outright. Not both of them. Just her. Which has one somewhat stupefying implication, obviously, which is why we’re probably all too stupefied to speak.
    No one seems particularly inclined to tell us more, either, and the temperature in the room, already somewhat chilly, plunges a few degrees lower.
    The Smith and the Ash component leave shortly after (the Smith component sweeping out as if leaving an arena having felled fifteen Christians and a goat, which seems excessive), it having been not in the least amicably agreed that they, I and Pru would communicate the next week, to discuss the ‘disposal’ arrangements. Or rather, in proper words, the sale of the house – the sale of my mother’s home from under her. Though I imagine neither of them have the tiniest interest in discussing what they think we’re going to do with our mother next. That they don’t much care seems understatement indeed. It’s almost too much to take in. So much for the idea of her contesting the will. Her/ them , come to think of it. Bloody hell .
    ‘Can we contest the will ourselves?’ I ask the solicitor afterwards.
    ‘Not really,’ he says kindly, ‘you don’t have any grounds. The house wasn’t part of the will.’
    ‘Jesus, Mum! Jesus! You are absolutely bloody unbelievable!’ snaps Pru. ‘Christ, this really takes the biscuit! First some long-lost son crawls out of the woodwork, and now we find out Hugo didn’t even own his house! How on earth could you have failed to know something like that?’
    We’re back in reception now and my mother, it has to be said, is looking somewhat flustered. Her own fault entirely. She did produce us after all. And in her own image. So it’s no less than she should expect.
    ‘Because I didn’t!’ she snaps. ‘How would I? Why would I? He told me he did ! Why wouldn’t I believe him? Forgive me, Prudence, but you of all people should know a marriage is based upon trust!’
    But not me, of all people? Though I don’t pause to ponder it. ‘God, but what now ?’ I lament roundly instead. Because ‘God, but what now?’ is really all I can think. Can they really just evict her? Just like that? Legally? Surely not. I pull open the glass door and scowl at the sunshine. There must be some law to protect people like my mother, though regrettably none springs to mind.
    When we emerge on to the street, it’s to find that the long-lost son, now very much found, appears anxious to press his presence home. He’s outside still and obviously waiting for us. Hovering on the pavement like he’s early for a date. Of the sister, though, there is not a sign.
    ‘Look,’ he says, speaking as he jerks to attention and strides (no – limps) purposefully across the pavement towards us. ‘I just wanted to say how sorry I am about all this.’
    We’re both